


Interlude

by thebookhunter



Series: The ballad of Victor Trevor [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reunion, Reunion Sex, See I fixed it, Wait for it it gets better, Warning: explicit consumption of really awful tea, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebookhunter/pseuds/thebookhunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Trevor is dead. Sherlock goes to the funeral.<br/>It's a terrible idea, of course, but he doesn't feel he has a choice.<br/>After all, it's been five years. What's the worst that could possibly happen.</p><p> </p><p>"‘Are you over me then?’ says Victor curtly.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>‘Does it look like I’m over you?’ says Sherlock, no softness in his tone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

(5 years later)

 

When he drops by the flat for a shower and a change of clothes, he finds Mycroft there.

‘Why aren’t you at work?’

Mycroft ignores that question.

‘Where is your phone?’ he says instead, his tone very much implying that he knows the answer perfectly well.

‘Sold it.’

Mycroft puffs angrily. Sherlock gives him his best “oh, don’t give me that” face. Mycroft takes a handful of notes out of his wallet, then checks it again, takes the rest out, hands them all over. Sherlock takes them without hesitation, crumples them in a bunch, and stuffs them in his pocket.

‘Buy yourself a phone’ says Mycroft.

‘I’m not staying’ says Sherlock, just in case Mycroft was getting ideas.

‘Yes, you are’ Mycroft starts making his way to the kitchen. ‘We need to have a conversation’ he shouts over his shoulder. He returns three minutes and one brief, desperate cry of a kettle later with a mug of tea, that overly sweet and overly milky concoction he tries to keep him alive with. Sherlock rather likes it.

‘So?’ he says, after a delicious, tooth-rotting, gut-burning gulp, with a reptile’s smile.

‘Charles Trevor died.’

Sherlock blinks, his expression now blank.

‘Sit down’ commands Mycroft.

Sherlock doesn’t move.

‘Please.’

Sherlock sits down.

They stay in silence for a long while, only Sherlock’s noisy sips audible in the room.

‘Your high school suits should fit you again’ says Mycroft then.

‘What are you talking about. I’m not going to the funeral’ says Sherlock.

Mycroft gives him the head tilt.

‘I’m not.’

The head tilt tilts further.

‘I’m not!’

 

*

 

The suit does fit. A bit short perhaps, but frankly, with the overall state he is in, his clothes will be just an anecdote. He has examined himself critically in the mirror this morning. His skin is a mess (and shaving hasn’t exactly helped), his hair looks dull and frizzy, the bones on his face have never looked sharper, and the rest of his body is like a toy skeleton children have dressed up for fun.

‘Do make sure they don’t keep you at the funeral parlour. Perhaps you should eat something. You look a bit too much like a prospective client.’

Sherlock glares, stretches his mouth into a sarcastic mockery of a smile. But then he swallows with a dry throat and, when his eyes meet Mycroft’s again for a brief moment, what he sees in there is sympathy and concern. Damn him.

 

*

 

The cremation was an intimate affair, but the reception that follows will probably end up in the high society yearly revues as one of the events of the season. In the hall of a Regency palace the government has loaned for the day, an elegant crowd has gathered to chat and gossip with long champagne tubes in one hand and nibbles in the other. Bit like a cocktail party, if it wasn’t for all the black and the big portrait on one wall, and the decidedly funerary touch in the flower arrangements.

When Sherlock finally arrives, two hours in, the gig is in full swing. He keeps himself to the walls, does not accept food nor drink, and he wills himself to breathe normally. It takes quite a bit of effort.

It doesn’t take long before he spots Victor among the crowd (gasp, belly flip.) He seems to be still in the process of doing the rounds among the attendants, getting commiserative looks and virile back-pats from the men, and face-kisses and heartfelt arm-squeezes from the women. He smiles without joy, and he looks worn out, skinnier, his skin colour not that great, a short stubble probably to hide it. He looks very, very handsome in spite of it all, sharp as a razor in his lead-grey suit and white shirt, only his tie in black. Because his hair is cut short, it looks darker. Not sunshine and gold this time, but still bright - almost quicksilver.

He seems whole enough. Sherlock guesses long illness, announced death, time to prepare for the inevitable. He did not ask Mycroft for details. Why in the world didn’t he?

Now Victor is chatting quietly to an elegant, middle-aged Asian woman who is maintaining a firmer eye contact with him than the rest. She must be Parvati, the widow. Around sixty, with one of those ageless faces, very beautiful and serene. Her interaction with Victor shows only shy familiarity, but you can tell they are fond of each other. Sherlock deduces that they haven’t had much contact -which they wouldn’t, if Victor has lived abroad all this time-, but they must have probably come together over the last few weeks or months, around Charles Trevor’s deathbed. Grief must have strengthened the bond. Whether it will last beyond it is another story.

Sherlock’s gaze now stumbles with the Donnithorpe group: Mrs. Northam and family (Sherlock has never seen them but it appears the most likely), Mr. Sears the head gardener and probably his wife, Peter and an older couple that must be his parents, and a few more people who must also have come from Norfolk and have huddled together against the terrifying London crowd. They don’t see Sherlock. He wonders if they would recognise him if they did.

The memories he has kept safely locked away for years come flooding in. He can deal with the generalities, but it’s the tiny details that are creeping up on him now, the smell of sun-kissed skin, rotten seaweed, dusty books, that particular brand of soap.

This is a mistake. He must leave, now. He tries to keep his anxiety in check and makes his way to the door. But he can’t resist seeking with his eyes to catch one last look of Victor, (where is he, where is he) only to find him staring back.

 

Sherlock feels as if the air has been punched out of his lungs.

 

Victor is frozen in place, his eyes wide and fixed, deep under his frown, his expression a whirl of pain, shock and longing.

Sherlock has no idea what to do. _(Surely you cannot leave now? Go, give him your condolences and leave quietly.)_ Mycroft’s voice in his mind has the right schoolmaster’s ring to it to get Sherlock moving.

He swallows and walks over to Victor, finding his way among the crowd, and comes to a stop one whole step away from him. He says nothing. A whole lot of nothing, for a very long time.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Victor breaks down sobbing. People turn to see.

Victor covers his mouth and rushes away in long, vigorous strides. The crowd parts to let him through.

‘Who are you?’ says Parvati.

Sherlock is frozen solid, unblinking.

Realisation dawns on her face. ‘Sherlock. You’re Sherlock’ says Parvati.

Sherlock finally looks at her. He turns around and starts walking in the opposite direction, almost running, hoping for an exit.

Parvati runs after Victor.

 

She catches up with Sherlock a few minutes later, when he was only a few steps away from the front door.

‘Please!’ she calls. ‘Sherlock!’ She must have had to run to find Victor, talk to him, and then find Sherlock. Yet she is perfectly composed, not one hair out of place, barely out of puff. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

Sherlock stops, keeps his eyes down. Parvati waits for an answer. 

‘I don’t think that is a good idea’ he says in the end.

‘You are not going to leave without talking to him, are you’ she says, and she is not asking.

Sherlock must admit it would be stupid. No worse than coming in the first place, but close.

Perhaps it’s her tone of absolute certainty, so much like Mycroft’s, as if she had seen it in a crystal ball or in a dream, that makes the decision for him.

 

She walks next to him without touching him, and guides him to a little parlour.

‘He is in here.’ she opens the door, holding the handle as if it could break, and gestures him in. ‘Please.’ Again, she is not asking.

 

Yes, there he is, slumped on a cheap visitor’s chair, smoking. Not crying his eyes out anymore, but breaking into a dry sob every now and then. He raises his eyes, so clear in the red-infused retinas, looking puffy and swollen as if he’s been beaten up.

They stare in silence. There is a sudden void in Sherlock’s stomach. He takes a deep breath.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come’ he says, meekly.

Victor sighs, breath shuddering.

‘No, it’s fine. He liked you a lot.’

Victor’s voice. _Victor’s voice._

A long, long silence, while Victor smokes, and Sherlock stares into nothing. He can be still as a statue and he knows people find it creepy. The alternative right now is to pace the room in a flurry, and possibly climb up the walls. He thinks still is better, so still he remains.

‘Let’s get out of here’ says Victor all of a sudden, as if he has reached a decision. He stubs the cigarette, stands up, straightens his jacket.

Sherlock frowns, a bit thrown off.

‘Won’t the people out there mind?’ he says, rather idiotically.

‘Bollocks to them’ says Victor. ‘Are you coming?’ Hopeful.

Sherlock frowns some more, then he nods.

 

They leave through a side door into a big patio at the back of the building, populated with dark, big, official-looking black cars. Victor just stands there and looks around for a second, and one of them pulls out and stops by them. Efficient. They climb up.

‘Home, please’ says Victor. The driver nods and starts.

They ride in silence. Victor sends texts, probably apologising or explaining. They’re going in the direction of the river.

They arrive. It’s an ultramodern glass tower right  by the riverside. The trip on the lift should be awkward, except that Victor appears so vacant, Sherlock almost feels as if he is in there alone.

Victor lets them into a huge, single space apartment right out of a modern design magazine, glass walls all around, panoramic views of the city, minimally furnished in metal and leather and dark exotic wood.

It’s completely devoid of personal objects or photographs. The only sign of recent habitation are some crumpled clothes piled up by a glass shower booth on the far corner, and a dirty mug by the sink of the galley kitchen. Sherlock thinks that Victor obviously does not live there. This has every chance of being his shag pad when he is in town. Sherlock gulps.

‘Drink?’ says Victor, still not looking up, making for the kitchen.

‘Whatever you’re having’ says Sherlock from the threshold. He doesn’t really want a drink, what he wants is a hit. He’s on something Mycroft got for him to help him pass the day without needing a fix (he hasn’t bothered asking what. He assumes) but that doesn’t mean he’s not craving it.

Victor strides back from the kitchen with two tumblers of scotch. He takes a long draught of one and leaves the other on the glass coffee table in front of a chester leather sofa. He plops himself on an armchair perpendicular to it, legs crossed, movements sharp. When Victor is uncomfortable he still seems in perfect command of his space, but rather than charming it into submission, he cuts through it like a scalpel.

Sherlock shuffles to the sofa, sits himself down stiffly and takes his drink.

Victor lights a fag. Sherlock has a sip and clears his throat.

‘You look like shit’ says Victor, pushing the pack of cigarettes across the table to him. Sherlock takes it and makes to light one. His hands shake and he can’t disguise it. He has nowhere to hide.

‘Thank you’ he says, taking a drag. He thinks of several sarcastic retorts he could throw back. One passing look at Victor’s eyes and he lets it go.

Victor takes another long draught. The silence is stretching into downright uncomfortable.

‘I’m sorry’ says Sherlock.

‘About what.’

Sherlock takes a sip and welcomes the burn in his throat.

‘The funeral. I don’t know why I have come.’

‘I do’ says Victor, matter-of-factly.

‘Do you.’

‘Because you liked my dad and you love me. Or loved me, whatever.’ A quick drag and a puff of smoke. ‘It’s not rocket science.’

Sherlock looks at his hands.

‘It sometimes feels like it to me’ he says, very very low.

‘I know’ says Victor, his tone somewhat softer.

Now he is looking at him unwaveringly.

‘Seriously, you look awful. Are you even eating?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Why don’t you tell me to mind my fucking business?’

Sherlock doesn’t have an answer to that.

‘Where do you live? With Mycroft?’ Victor continues his interrogation.

Sherlock gives himself time to answer that one.

‘Sometimes.’ he says at last.

‘Fuck, Sherlock.’ He sounds pissed off, with a big side of hurting. ‘Are you being careful?’ he says then, or rather throws it there, trying to hide the honest concern in that question under something less kind.

Sherlock shrugs. Victor shakes his head heavily, eyes welling up, drifting to one side.

‘I don’t understand,’ he says, his voice thin.

Sherlock stands up.

‘This was a mistake.’

Victor stands up.

‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ he chokes out.

He hesitates on his feet for a few seconds, and then he walks over to Sherlock, gaze low. He reaches for him, struggling to lift his hand as if his arm weighed a ton. He strokes Sherlock’s face, rubbing a thumb on the hard bones of his cheek, and sighs painfully. He looks as if he wants to say something but he can’t. He shakes his head, and hugs him, and breaks down crying.

Sherlock stands there, arms hanging at each side. In his mind, he sees himself hugging him back. He can’t. He doesn’t. Victor is sobbing quietly against his chest.

His smell. His warmth.

Shit.

Sherlock’s mind is furnishing all sorts of visions. His cock is taking a most unwanted, inconvenient interest. Sherlock tries to shift away without disturbing Victor.

 _Shit_.

Victor lifts his tear stricked face. He looks angry.

Shit, he has noticed.

Victor sniffs and snorts and wipes the tears and snot off his face with the back of his hand, and quite brusquely deals with Sherlock’s zip. Sherlock swallows. Victor pushes him roughly back to sitting on the sofa, and kneels in front of him, between his legs. He pulls Sherlock’s trousers and pants down in one sharp, forceful tug that drags Sherlock down his seat with them. Victor takes Sherlock’s cock in hand and gets his mouth close, then seems to think twice. He looks briefly into Sherlock’s eye, assessing him. Sherlock honest to god hasn’t yet caught up with what is happening.

Victor stands up and walks to the armchair where his jacket is draped over the backrest. He rummages through the pockets, while Sherlock just waits there, pants around his knees, hard, breathing fast, terrified, or god knows what. Victor comes back with a condom.

He kneels down in front of Sherlock again, almost businesslike, angrily shoving the glass coffee table away to make more room. The screech on the marble floor echoes in the empty apartment. He quickly uncuffs his shirt and pulls the sleeves up to his elbows. He slides the condom on Sherlock, who is completely still, not cooperating but hardly pushing him away. Victor swallows him down whole and sucks him hard. Sherlock pants and bites down a moan, and is very very still, head thrown back, eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling, and just doesn’t know how the fuck that happened.

He comes in less than two minutes, shuddering and shaking.

Victor sits on his heels then, scrubbing a hand over his mouth to get rid of the spit. He doesn’t look at Sherlock. Sherlock looks at him. Victor is hard.

Victor gets up and walks to the kitchen. Pours himself a glass of water.

Sherlock, breathing coming back to normal, legs weak, head light, clumsily deals with the condom and sorts himself out.

It’s been five fucking years.

He turns to look at Victor, hip leaning against the breakfast bar, eyes vacant. For the life of him, Sherlock doesn’t know what to say or do. He just sits there, shell-shocked, petrified.

 

Victor pours another glass of water and leaves it on the displaced coffee table next to the tumbler of scotch, his movements still fast and brusque. He lights two fags and offers one to Sherlock. It takes Sherlock an age to muster the whatever it is he is finding so hard to come by to take it, but Victor just holds out there, unmoving, until he does.

Victor strolls towards the full-glass wall and smokes, one hand in his pocket.  Night is falling. The loft is in darkness, the only lights the fading sunset and the sparkling city below. Victor looks so tall and lean and far-removed, smoking in long, long drags.

Sherlock’s heart rate is back to normal now. As he stands up, the leather of the sofa creaks. Alerted by the sound, Victor turns to face him, taking a drag, one hand still in his pocket, legs splayed, defiant.

They look at each other in silence, or rather Victor looks at him and Sherlock looks to one undetermined spot above Victor’s shoulder, where there is basically rooftops and sky.

‘Did you finish chemistry?’ asks Victor.

Sherlock nods.

Victor tilts his head forwards and his shoulders seem to relax slightly, as if he found some relief in that.

‘Are you going to run the company now?’ asks Sherlock.

Victor blows some smoke, shoulders back to tense. ‘Why? Are you afraid I’ll come back to London?’

Sherlock’s eyes do meet Victor’s in passing now.

‘Of course not.’

Long drag.

‘Are you over me then?’ says Victor curtly.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

‘Does it look like I’m over you?’ says Sherlock, no softness in his tone.

‘Mycroft has been teaching you diplomacy’ states Victor.

Sherlock smirks.

‘He would say I’m an awful student.’

‘Probably. He’s the kind of older brother who never says anything nice to your face.’

Sherlock keeps quiet and still.

‘He sent flowers’ says Victor, smoke escaping his lips. ‘Not him personally, his department.’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘But he did tell you about the funeral.’

‘How do you know.’

‘I didn’t.’

A silence.

‘I really did like your father very much’ says Sherlock at the end of it.

‘I know’ Victor’s voice is quiet, but not unkind now.

Sherlock wonders if he can make himself say it.

‘And…’ he starts.

A long, long silence, painful to stand, and yet Victor stands it.

‘I know that too’ he says finally, magnanimously letting Sherlock off the hook. As he always did.

Sherlock wants to shoot the wall.

‘I’m sorry about your loss’ he says then, because he should at least be able to manage _that_.

Tears start streaming down Victor’s face.

‘Me too’ he sobs. ‘Fuck, Sherlock…’ he covers his face, rubs furiously to wipe the tears. He turns his back again.

Time passes with only Victor’s sniffing to be heard.

‘I should leave now’ says Sherlock.

‘Why? Have you got a better place to go?’ says Victor without looking.

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

‘Then finish your drink.’ He sniffs.

Sherlock sits himself back down, irked by Victor’s tone. He knows he is pouting, and he knows that grown-ups don’t pout, but right now being pissed off feels a lot better than the other choices available to him. So pissed off it is. Being reasonable, he should know it’s himself he is pissed off with. Hungry, craving a hit, stressed out about this whole situation and barely keeping it together, he doesn’t feel like being reasonable. What he really wishes is to lash out and probably throw Victor’s concern and pity blow-jobs to his face. Pity blow-jobs with a fucking condom, because God knows what Sherlock the junkie gets up to these days, right?

‘I’m not stupid you know’ he says, and Victor will think it’s out of nowhere, but so fucking what. ‘I don’t share needles.'

‘Good for you’ says Victor, toneless. ‘Do you want to fuck bareback then?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’ He is still looking out the window.

If Sherlock was someone else, he’d be gaping like a fish out of water. Since Sherlock is the way he is, he is sat very still, perfectly composed, only a slight frown betraying the plunge his stomach has just taken.

‘Is that why you brought me here?’ he says, curtly.

‘Is that why you came?’

The challenge hangs silently in the air for a spell.

‘…I don’t know why I came’ says Sherlock then, refusing to _think_.

Victor sighs, sounding weary.

‘…You never fucking know anything.’

‘You haven’t answered my question’ says Sherlock, because he’s done taking the pounding without giving some of it back.

Another silence. This conversation is plagued with them.

‘…I brought you here because I miss you’ says Victor, just when Sherlock did not expect it any more. ‘Why did you come?’

Silence.

’Come on, Sherlock, for once in your fucking life, face it and fucking say it.’

Silence. Pregnant, heavy.

‘I miss you too’ says Sherlock then.

Victor stands to his full height, long neck, chin up.

‘Then come here and take what you want’ he dares him.

Sherlock stares at him, his silhouette cut against the remains of the evening, scary and alluring and familiar, and also new, stronger, harder. Sherlock doesn’t move one bit.

‘Sherlock Holmes, grow some balls and come over here’ he commands.

Sherlock stands up slowly and walks over, dragging his feet. Stands in front of him, not looking up.

He swallows. This is difficult.

‘Do _you_ want me? Looking like this?’ he says at last.

A small, sad smile breaks the tense line of Victor’s mouth for the first time since he saw Sherlock. He strokes his face once, twice, and holds him in a tight embrace.

‘Always’ he mutters, almost as he doesn’t want Sherlock to hear.

It’s all it takes. Sherlock hugs him and kisses him ferociously for all the wasted years. He bites and pushes and digs his nails in. Victor gasps and returns as good as he is given. They stagger all the way to the bed kissing, fumbling with their buttons. Victor pushes him onto the mattress. Takes his shirt off, kicks shoes and socks off, gets rid of his trousers and pants. Looking at him, Sherlock moans from sheer, piercing lust. Victor goes for Sherlock’s shirt. The whole dance so familiar.

When Victor’s hands slide under Sherlock’s shirt to take it off, he frowns deeply, and a sudden realisation strikes Sherlock. He grips Victor’s wrists to still his hands, looking cornered. Victor gently but forcefully opens Sherlock’s shirt. And this is why, in front of Victor’s eyes: he is all bones.

Victor winces and his eyes well up. Sherlock wriggles and turns, struggling to slip away from Victor’s hold, ready to run out of the flat. Victor clutches him firmly and strokes Sherlock’s face gently, his eyes so soft and sad and warm, and leans close to put a kiss to his forehead, cheekbones, lips, neck. He lies flush on top of him, kissing him, trapping him, his hands petting and caressing, his movements almost guarded, not unlike one who tries to calm down a scared animal.

Sherlock takes his scent in, his heat, his weight on top of him. He starts kissing back.

He rolls them over and pushes Victor onto his back. He lurches for his cock and takes him into his mouth. He has missed this, seeing him undone, hearing his breathing and his moaning, seeing him arch his back and neck with pleasure. He never thought he would see it again.

Victor gently cups his jaw and pushes him away. He fixes Sherlock with his eyes.

‘Come here’ he says.

Sherlock slithers up Victor’s body, rubbing his face on his stomach and chest, and straddles his hips to ride him. Victor reaches for lube in the drawer and slicks his cock. Sherlock slicks himself up too, stretching himself minimally, and lowers himself onto Victor’s cock, without any more preparation. It was intended. He pushes down hard, grinding, hissing when the head breaches him. Victor has him pinned down with his eyes when Sherlock opens his. He is gaping, drawing out short, sharp breaths as Sherlock takes him in.

They start moving together, Victor’s hands on Sherlock’s hips, Sherlock circling and rocking on him, Victor thrusting up. They fuck quick for a bit, until Sherlock has to stop, gasping for air.

He comes off Victor and lies down on the bed, on his front. Victor enters him again and fucks him deep. Sherlock pushes back, lifts his arse, arches his neck for Victor to bite, all of his body covered with Victor’s skin.

This is one of the long ones. Victor makes love to him relentlessly. Sherlock feels grounded, his brain muffled, just Victor’s breathing, the feel of his mouth on his neck, his tongue and breath in his ear, his hand in his hair, raking into his scalp, his heat and sweat, his strength. It doesn’t even bring memories. It’s just here and now. It’s good. It’s real. He is loved, he is owned. And for that little while, all is well in the world and nothing else matters.

Victor is getting close and so is Sherlock. He bends a knee to reach for his own cock, and Victor’s hand follows him there, rests it on his as he fucks him a bit more sharply now, faster. When Sherlock gets there, both their hands are on his cock, Victor’s mouth on his neck.

Victor thrusts into him a bit longer. Sherlock lies there with his eyes closed, in a sort of trance. When Victor comes he does it quietly, with a shiver.

 

Lying splayed and spent on the monster bed, smoking, Victor’s fingers idling in Sherlock’s hair, not a word is heard.

A phone pings. Sherlock sits up, a bit dizzy, and reaches for his jacket on the floor, by the bed.

_Where are you? MH_

Sherlock ponders for a minute, then he texts back

_I’m with Victor. SH_

The reply comes almost instantly.

_Do I need to worry? MH_

Sherlock grins a very small grin, barely there.

_You will anyway SH_

There will be no more texts that night.

 

Sherlock watches from the bed as Victor has a wash in that transparent shower cube with views to the London Eye, and he watches him walking back, cut against the uncertain city night lights. But rather than making for the bed, Victor veers towards the kitchen. Without asking, Victor makes tea with lots of milk and sugar, and just leaves it there by Sherlock’s side on the bedside stand. Sherlock has to smile at that. Has Mycroft been handing out leaflets?

Victor sits on the bed, pulls the sheet over his legs. For a long time they just smoke, sip at their overly sweet drinks and don’t talk.

‘Is it still New York?’ says Sherlock at one point.

‘Yes.’

‘When are you going back there?’

Victor puffs a curtain of smoke.

‘I don’t know. Everybody is expecting me to take a holiday.’

‘Will you?’

Victor does not reply for a while.

‘I don’t know. I might. Somewhere tropical.’ He exhales noisily. ‘Fuck my way through the grieving, why not. I should take Parvati with me. It would be so Tennessee Williams.’

Sherlock considers whether or not to ask his next question for a while.

‘Do you… Have you got a boyfriend there?’

Victor takes a drag.

‘I have lots of boyfriends there. I have lots of boyfriends here. I cheat on all of them with you.’

Sherlock ponders that for a long while. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

‘You don’t think about me, do you?’ says Victor then. ‘Have you deleted it all?’

Sherlock takes a drag to delay answering.

‘I try not to think about you, yes’ he says, because it’s true. ‘But I haven’t deleted a thing.’ Which is also true.

A silence while Victor takes that in.

‘Thank you, I suppose.’ he sounds choked. A silence. ‘Do you have anyone? Has there been anyone?’

‘No.’

A pause.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t want to. There is no one that…’ He can’t.

‘Yes?’

He _must_. Long exhale.

‘It was just you.’ Sigh. ‘I only ever wanted to be with you’   _Everybody else is stupid, repulsive and boring_ -that he doesn’t say.

A sad chuckle from Victor.

’The virgin and the slut.’ A puff of smoke. ‘But in the end we’re still two peas in a pod.’

Victor rubs his head then in frustration.

‘I keep thinking how I could make it work. Us. Stay here, help you’ says Victor. ‘I can’t.’

Sherlock doesn’t say anything to that. To him that has never been an option.

‘I can’t help you with the drugs. I’m afraid to be around it right now’ says Victor. As if he owed him an explanation.

They both feel burdened with things they are not saying.

‘I’m not ready to come off them yet. It’s not your problem to fix’ says Sherlock.

‘I know. …I wish it was.’ A deep sigh. ‘…But drugs are not the problem, are they? Not the real problem.’

Sherlock doesn’t bother with an answer.

Victor hugs his knees, breath shuddering into a sob.

‘I just can’t get it in my head that we can’t fucking be together’ he says, his voice breaking.

Sherlock lifts an arm, puts his hand tentatively on Victor’s back, feeling clumsy.

‘I know I have to move on’ says Victor muffledly, face hidden against his forearms. ‘I just don’t fucking want to. It’s you I want.’ His body starts shaking with his crying.

Before he can think (and perhaps that was the trick all along) Sherlock is wrapped tight around him, stroking his head. Which doesn’t so much help as finish the job of shattering Victor to pieces. He cries into his arms for a long time. Sherlock holds him through the sobs that jolt him up. After a while they let themselves fall back onto the bed, Victor burrowing into Sherlock’s chest, held strongly between his arms.

‘It seems so easy like this’ says Victor when he is calmer.

Sherlock doesn’t offer anything back. It is not easy for him.

‘One day I’ll come back and you’ll be alright.’ says Victor, out of nowhere.

A long silence. Sherlock struggles with wishful thinking, he always has, now more than ever. But he brings himself to speak.

‘One day you’ll come back and you’ll be alright’ he says.

‘You might even have a boyfriend’ says Victor then.

‘You definitely will. And a dog.’

‘We can go on holidays together, the four of us, and the dog, and you and me can have a hot affair twice a year.’

Sherlock laughs quietly. It had been a while as well.

‘You just upped that to thrice a year’ says Victor.

Sherlock laughs some more.

‘Keep doing that and they’ll discover us.’

Sherlock laughs and laughs, relieved. Victor hugs him tight.

‘Do you want me to tell you where I feel it when you laugh like that’ he purrs.

‘You already did, once.’

‘Then you know what I’m thinking right now.’

They kiss slowly and lazily. Victor strokes his bony chest, the ribs, the shoulders, the collarbones. It’s not sensual, just affectionate. Sherlock struggles with not pushing him off. He shuts his eyes tight and tries to forget the vision of himself that morning in the mirror.

‘Beautiful Sherlock’ breathes Victor against his emaciated body. Then his expression changes, turns to stern and grave. He fixes him with his eyes, severe. ‘Don’t you fucking die on me, Sherlock Holmes.’ His eyes like blazes. ‘Do you hear?’

Sherlock nods.

‘You hear?’ insists Victor.

‘You’re the one with the suicidal tendencies’ says Sherlock, matter-of-factly. ‘I’m just bored. _I_ should be telling _you_ not to die on _me_.’

‘If you ever said things like that.’

A pause.

‘Don’t you die on me, Victor Trevor’ says Sherlock, mimicking Victor’s voice.

Victor laughs a muffled chuckle. It sounds wonderful to Sherlock, and it feels even better.

‘God.’ He nuzzles Sherlock’s shoulder with his nose. ‘I love you, you bloody oaf.’

Sherlock nuzzles back, but that is all he has.

 

At some point, Victor falls asleep. Sherlock watches him for a long time, until he dozes off himself.

 

At dawn they fuck again, slow and gentle, and later they make out for twenty minutes in the shower, until Sherlock feels ill and needs to sit down. Victor helps him to the bed and forces some more tea down his throat, but sugar is not going to cut it any longer.

‘What can I do? How can I help?’ asks Victor, anxious.

‘I need to go’ says Sherlock. ‘I’ve run out of the stuff Mycroft gave me. It’s going to get ugly soon.’ And in a mutter, ‘I don’t want you to see me like that.’

Victor takes a deep, shaky breath and nods.

‘Can I call a cab from your phone?’ asks Sherlock. ‘Mine is dead.’

Victor shakes his head and picks up his own mobile. Dials.

‘Morning, Sam. Sorry, I know it’s early. … Yeah. No, fine. Listen, can you do me a favour? … Pick somebody up for me? … At the flat, yes. … Wherever he tells you. … Yeah. …Thanks, brilliant, you’re a star. … ‘He chuckles. ‘Yes, and triple rate too, tell them I said so. Ok. …’ A look at Sherlock.’  As soon as possible, really. … Ok. Thanks mate. Bye.’

And talking to Sherlock.

‘I don’t want you on a taxi if you’re not feeling well’ he explains.

Sherlock nods. The sickly feeling is not easing, and it’s going to get worse very quickly.

‘Will Mycroft have more stuff for you when you get there?’ asks Victor.

‘I don’t know, but I’ve got stuff.’

‘The other stuff.’

Sherlock looks down.

‘Yes.’

Victor hesitates, bites his bottom lip. Makes for the kitchen to brew some more tea. While Sherlock sips at his cup, Victor sits at a bar stool, stirring his drink endlessly, not drinking it. The minutes trickle by.

‘Sherlock’ he says. He is staring intently, his eyes so clear, piercing. Sherlock holds his stare. Victor opens his mouth, closes it.

Sherlock nods, almost smiles.

 

A text message lets Victor know the car is waiting. They shuffle to the door, then across the hall, call the lift, and wait in deep gloom as in the last hour before an execution.

Sherlock suddenly turns to look at him, looking probably a bit green by now.

‘I need to… I need to say something’ he struggles.

Victor looks on expectantly. Sherlock tries, and tries, and tries.

’I know’ says Victor after the long, gaping silence.

‘No, you don’t know. Let me finish.’ Sherlock snaps, impatient, and collects himself. He can do this. ‘You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.’

Victor frowns, swallows, his eyes well up.

‘You are the love of my life’ he mutters, all choked up.

‘Don’t be daft’ says Sherlock, a hand on his arm, a strong squeeze.

The lift.

Frozen in place for so long that the doors start to shut. Sherlock stops them, eyes low.

‘You’ll be alright’ says Victor. ‘I know you will.’

Sherlock nods.

‘You too. Married, a dog, kids even, happy’ he says.

‘Married?’

‘I’m sure Mycroft is working on it. Give him time.’

Victor fails to laugh. He hugs him, refusing to let him go. Kisses him, kisses him again, hugs him again. And shoves him into the lift.

They’re still staring into each other’s eyes as the doors shut. Sherlock with a little half smile, most of it in his eyes, Victor smiling between tears.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta, fabulous Cloisteredself!


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